He grins, briefly, but it’s there. “Did you now?”
“You didn’t play too bad either.” I smirk.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Annoyingly impressive,” I tease. “Especially because I was told you don’t push forward much. You’re a box-to-box midfielder, but you’re not usually pressing high up.”
He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly modest. “Just felt right in the moment.”
“Oh, did it now?" I jab. “Should I add that to your character profile?Oliver Bradshaw: Midfield. Moody. Clairvoyant?”
He chuckles. “Don’t forgetbossy.”
“I believe the term you insisted on wascaptain.”
“Right,” he says with a wink. He glances over at the stack of files I was putting away. “Need help?”
He leans forward to grab them, but I pull them back. His eyes catch on a tab labeledplayer assets.
“Oh, no, I’m—”
“What the fuck was that?” he asks, brow furrowing. His eyes are even sharper than his voice.
I glance at it and try to play it cool. “The player profiles we were literally just talking about. Did you think I was joking?”
“I knew you were serious,” he says, his jaw tightening. “But why is it labeledassets?”
“It’s just how I organize things,” I lie smoothly. “It’s just an industry term.”
“That’s interesting,” he says, tilting his head at me. All the friendliness from moments ago has suddenly evaporated, replaced by something cold and cutting. “I’ve never heard it before.”
“Oh, well, um—”
“Try again, Addison.”
I try not to flinch. “It’s just a term, Oliver. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It does to the person you’re reducing down to being just an asset.” His voice drops low, the anger unmistakable. “These lads—my teammates—they’re not numbers on a spreadsheet, Addison. They’re not inventory. They’re not money in a bank account. They’re people. They’re my family. They have loved ones, families, children. They’ve fought through injuries, grief, and who knows what else. And you’re sitting there calling them assets like they’re disposable.”
“I never said they were disposable,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “It’s just how I keep things professional.”
“Well, it’s heartless,” he snaps. “We’re fucking people, Addison. Maybe you should get to know the people here before you start selling them.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
And with that, he shoves the folders away from him and leaves.
I’m left standing here, stung by his words, staring at the folder labeledassets. Suddenly, it does look wrong.It looks cold.
Damn it.
I push through the office door and stomp down the stairs toward the locker room, her words still burning in my ears.
Assets.
That’s all we are? Just numbers that can be moved around and sold. Not human beings with scars and real stories.
I can’t stop the rage rising, but it’s tangled up with something else—disappointment.
